The Dark Side of the Mirror
by Port-of-Seas
Summary: AU. Instead of transforming Michael into a human after the events of Misbegotten, the Atlanteans work out a compromise with Michael that leads to new adventures, and a strange revelation about former Wraith experimentation on humans.
1. After Battle After Flight

Note: I only used one scene directly quoting the episode Misbegotten all the way. There was one word that, no matter how many times I heard it, I couldn't figure it out, so I had to change that word to make more sense. Kudos to whomever can catch it. Also, reference to forest cats is a direct link to a story by Queen of the Red Skittle on 

Thanks to Hummingbird for editing for me.

Disclaimer: I do not own Stargate Atlantis, Michael, or any of the franchise. Though I do one my OC.

o-o-o

The valley, nestled between the base of the rising mountains, was as well protected a place as any wanderer could hope to dwell. In the winter, a wide assortment of caves provided safe escapes from the frosty weather. In the summer, the sun beat down on the earth, warming the air and urging the plants to grow and be fruitful. Winds blew through the valley, whistling and rustling the trees in an endless lullaby. Nuts were plentiful; fruit ripe and firm while edible roots and leaves grew free from the control of human hands. Meat was common, for animals were unafraid to wander through the valley, and if one or two went missing, it passed unnoticed.

She did not want to leave the place; her home. For years beyond count, it had sheltered and nurtured her, healing ancient wounds and raising her as its own wild daughter. But the time had come for her to leave the comforting womb of the valley, and even as her heart screamed in protest, it could not contend with the truth of her sight.

The Wraith had returned after so many years. She hid amidst the branches of an old wax-leaf tree, watching anxiously as they stormed through the old facility build high on the sides of one of the mountains. They were silent as always, their eyes half-lidded with disinterest. They believed the place to remain abandoned as they had left it, their research forgotten.

She winced at the sound of shattering glass from within and the screams of their weapons firing as they sought to destroy what little remained. Choking back a whimper, the girl covered her ears, trying to forget the sounds. Her chest stung, her stomach dropping to the ground below, but she did not dare to move.

When at last they left, returning to their ships and leaving the valley, she continued to hide in her tree until well after dusk, too fearful to abandon her perch just yet. Stars sprang to the sky; tiny shimmering drops of water against obsidian night. Beneath her, animals scurried through the underbrush, chittering and barking as the creatures of the day returned to their dens.

Regaining her confidence, she slipped down from the tree, her bare, callused feet crunching against the underbrush. She crept through the valley, hands trembling as she watched the creatures of the night come to life.

There was the old striped rat stealing from his neighbors again. And the golden-eyed bird, eyeing her carefully as if to say 'go away, little one. Go away.'

She swallowed and turned, dashing to her cave up the base one of the mountains. Sticks and stones ground against the hardened pads of her feet, leaves crunching and cracking loudly despite her usual stealth, but the wild girl could not care for any of it. She had to leave as swiftly as possible, in case they returned.

She clambered into her home, breathing hitched from nervousness, peering into the gloom. There was much she would have to leave behind; food, water, many of her stone and wood tools. Surely such things could be found on the other mountain.

Hastily, she began bundling together only the necessary items. A blanket, stolen from the facility, could hold several animal pelts, a stone dagger, and as many sharp syringes as she had last snatched before the Wraith had returned.

Folding them all in her blanket and standing, she paused to take what could prove to be a last look at her home in the dim light. It wasn't a grand place, like the caves of the beasts that ruled the valley. But it had always been comfortable, dry, and warm when she most needed it. She closed her eyes and breathed in the rich scents of earth and rain that had always thrived in the small space. Wherever she went next, would she find those same smells?

She shook the thoughts from her head and turned, facing the world outside. Her heart fluttered painfully, but she had to ignore it as she surveyed her path. She could not journey further up this mountain, where facility lay. If the Wraith returned to shatter the peace of the valley again, they would surely think to search it. Further along, the valley offered little protection from predators, and no amount of fear could drive her into the claws of a forest cat so willingly.

The only place to go was the place the Wraith themselves sailed from on the other mountain. When they had approached, the screeching sound of their ships had not stopped, therefore they could not have possibly bothered to land anywhere. The Wraith had no interest in that mountain, and where they did not look, she had to flee.

Silently, she reassured herself and slipped down from the cave, eyes never leaving the other mountain. She could live for a time off even strange lands, and she had enough syringes to last her years, or at least until she felt it was safe to return. If her heart ever told her it was.

o-o-o

Teyla Emmagan of the Athosians did not acknowledge the marine as he opened the door; her sight was too focused on the figure that stood staring out at the city around him, his back turned to her. Despite reverting back into a Wraith, sometimes the light gave his skin an almost golden tint, reminding her of what he had been. What she wished he could still be right now.

She stopped, steadying her stance before addressing him.

"Michael."

He turned slowly, his face caught in the shadow of the darkened room. His slitted eyes flicked easily away from the window to capture her in a gaze of so many toiled emotions until, at last, they settled on familiarity and nostalgia.

She took a steadying breath, unnerved to see such eyes despite their catlike nature. Michael, catching her unease, shifted instantly to a new set of emotions. Discontent, irritation, and in the place of vulnerability arose Wraithlike arrogance.

"Even though I saved Colonel Sheppard's life and helped him stop the Hives from reaching Earth," he said scornfully, his voice low and resonant. "You still place me in here."

"You have betrayed our trust in the past," Teyla retorted firmly a wry, unbelieving smile slipping onto her face.

"Trust," he scorned raising his chin in defiance. "I was your prisoner, then. And despite what I've done for you," he left the shadows of the window, striding into the center of the room, his back turned to her as he took in his surroundings. "Here I am once again."

He stopped, turning back to stare at her before finishing his statement.

"I can't say I'm surprised."

Teyla let out a loose sigh, her face hardening into stone. Michael went on, filling the silence with his musings as he turned his gaze away once again.

"I wasn't welcome among my own kind, why should I be welcome here?"

"What are you talking about?" Teyla asked monotonously, her voice betraying none of the anxiety that churned beneath the surface. Michael glanced back at her, his dark eyes burning.

"She looked at me as if I was some unclean thing," he snapped bitterly. "I may appear as a Wraith again on the outside, but as far as they're concerned, I'm-" He faltered, mouth hanging open, unable to finish the sentence. He drew back, recovering from his lapse to continue. "That is why I need your help."

Teyla took a deep breath.

"What do you want?"

"I can't stay here," he said levelly. "But I can't return to the Wraith. Which means I need to make my own way. And to do that," he took a step forward. Instinctively, Teyla retreated, her eyes never leaving his face. Behind her, the guards raised their weapons. Michael stopped, exhaling sharply, an amused smirk creeping onto his features before he continued. "I need supplies. And a ship."

Teyla frowned, shocked at his proposal.

"We are grateful for your help," she allowed. "But we can never release you, not with the information you possess."

"Then kill me now!"

She was hardly surprised by his outburst; Michael had been fairly impulsive since learning who and what he was. But he seemed to think little through to other possible ends.

"There is another way."

He stared for a moment, resignation creeping into his features. Once more, she could see the familiar vulnerability as he averted his gaze.

"Take the treatment again," he said softly.

"Yes," she answered.

"What I am is not a disease you can cure," he insisted in the same quiet voice.

"Your life as a human could be rich and full," Teyla assured him, irritation rising in her chest.

"And if I remember nothing of what or who I am," he paused a moment. "If this consciousness is erased. What is the difference between that and death?" He caught Teyla's eyes and stared fixedly. "And if I do remember and revert back to my true nature… what will happen then?"

Teyla caught her breath. It was a question she had anticipated, but not enough to truly expect him to ask it.

"Dr. Beckett has made significant advances. The treatments are more effective now, and eventually, he may find a permanent solution."

"If you really believed that," Michael insisted, walking toward her. Teyla did not retreat this time, though the Marines tightened their grips on their guns. "Those Wraith you transformed wouldn't be in stasis on the ship." He stopped just a foot shy of her, and Teyla has to gaze up to maintain eye contact, strangely calm despite his presence. His earlier emotional lapse had given her confidence enough to believe that he would not feed upon her. His expression had grown disdainful, mocking, even. "They'd be here. Reveling in your hospitality."

Teyla did not allow her mask to slip, gazing into his face. Beneath the Wraith, she could still see it. The human, Michael Kenmore; the man she still wished to consider her friend despite Ronon's warnings and John's belief that he was a lost cause.

"Give Dr. Beckett time," she instructed. Michael's face washed into a tide of disbelief and he turned, stalking to the other side of the room, a growl forming in his throat. Teyla sighed and turned to leave. He would not listen to her again tonight.

o-o-o

The wild girl stumbled through the woods, her pack slung over one shoulder, teeth clenched against the cold as rain pelted from the sky, coating the mountainside in slick water. Mousy locks, hewn to shoulder length, fell before her eyes, sticking to her skin and obscuring her vision. She took a shuddering breath. This was the first time she had ever been so far from the valley.

She paused, leaning against a tree for support and gazing upward through the sparse branches, catching sight of the blue-gray sky above as it poured the water down onto the world. Did it always rain so? It was a miracle that the valley didn't completely flood with such storms.

She pushed off the tree and forced her trembling legs to continue, knowing that the sooner she found shelter, she sooner she could rest and warm herself up.

As her feet slid through the muddy earth, her stomach growled loudly. She moaned in disbelief. Perhaps, in her haste, she should not have forgotten all the food. But she hadn't counted on a storm so rough that she could not simply forage for food along the way. She would simply have to go hungry until the storm abated.

When dawn came, the burning red sunrise brought some clarity to her situation. She was some ways up from the valley, but not far enough to truly be safe should the Wraith return. Different plants grew here, but she recognized enough to know healing herbs and edible food.

The mountainsides were littered with rocky outcroppings, and she hid under one until the rain abated somewhat, and crept out only to gather food or relieve her bladder. She decided to wait a day until the land had dried enough for an easier journey. She would soon have to orient herself; wherever she ended up, she needed to be near water. The first step had been simply leaving the valley. The second would be finding the river that flowed down from this mountain and following it.

She drifted off to sleep, hidden beneath the rock, repeating that over and over in her head until she was confident she could not forget.


	2. Compromise

Chapter 2!

A/N: Okay, so as of now this story is SERIOUSLY AU, but I'm going to continue with it. Thanks so much to those two reviewers for the first chapter! I'm glad I didn't get any flames, considering that this is an AU fic. Of course, the more reviews I get, the more encouraged I am to write. I know it sounds shallow, but admit it. It's true for everyone.

Also, for those of you who find the Wild Girl random, don't worry. She actually will have a valid point later (more to live out a few SG theories of mine than anything else).

Disclaimer: I only own the wild girl, and by a long stretch, the circumstances the characters are living under. Otherwise, it would be on the show, wouldn't it?

o-o-o

"I say we just give him the retrovirus and stick him on the planet with the other prisoners," John insisted heatedly.

"For once, I think I am in total agreement with Sheppard," Rodney added with a nod. "I mean, what good can come of keeping him in the city? Hm?"

"Well, he does have valuable Wraith insight," Elizabeth Weir pointed out. "He can operate our new Hive ship, tell us about Wraith strategies and culture. Things he wouldn't remember if we turned him back into a human."

"Come on, Elizabeth," Rodney cried, exasperated. "Like he's really going to tell us anything. Besides, he was an expert about his own Hive which, may I remind you, consists of a bunch of corpses and transformed Wraith right about now. I very much doubt he's going to come in handy when we have to face off every other Hive ship in the Pegasus galaxy. And don't even say 'what harm could it do'," he went on, catching Carson halfway in the act of opening his mouth. "Because I can tell you. Easily. Wraith are telepathic. If he doesn't like the type of sandwich we give him, boom! We could have half the Hive ships in Pegasus on our tails."

"Rodney," Elizabeth said, trying to calm the scientist down, but Rodney continued.

"You know how many Hive ships there are? A lot! And not to mention what we are gonna do about feeding him, anyway? We all know perfectly well that human food can only last so long before he sucks one of us dry."

"He has a point," Sheppard remarked, leaning forward. Ronon grunted.

"I say we just kill him," the Runner suggested harshly. Sheppard shook his head.

"Naw, we can't do that?"

"And why not?"

"Because I said so," John replied tersely, turning a glare at Ronon. "He did what he did because he wants to keep on living. It'd be a little ungrateful to go 'Aw, geez Michael, thanks for the help. We're gonna kill you now, okay?'"

"Colonel Sheppard, he's a _Wraith_."

"Not necessarily, Ronon," Carson spoke up. "After all, it's clear that, despite his reversion, he still sports some humanlike features. He may not be human, but I don't think he's quite a Wraith either. So he's still our responsibility."

"And we don't kill our responsibility," John added for good measure. Ronon snorted derisively.

"Then what about what Dr. McKay said?" he challenged. "He won't be useful, we know for certain he won't be cooperative, and eventually, he's going to have to feed."

"So our only option really might be the retrovirus," Elizabeth said. Teyla schooled her face into a stony expression while Carson shifted uncomfortably.

"You know he won't take it," the doctor insisted. "And I hate the idea of forcing the treatment on him again."

"Well, what choice do we really have?" Rodney insisted.

"Can we not work out a compromise?" Teyla asked, sitting stiffly in her chair. Ronon glanced over at her, narrowing his eyes.

"What sort of compromise, Teyla?" Elizabeth asked. Teyla took a breath, glancing up at Dr. Beckett.

"I suggest we alter the retrovirus to suit a different purpose. Stop the process only as far as we need to."

"You mean, transform Michael into a half-Wraith, half human… thing," Sheppard said. Teyla inclined her head in agreement. Elizabeth heaved a breath.

"I'm not sure he's going to go for that either, Teyla," the leader said.

"What Michael is most concerned about is losing his memory," Teyla insisted. "What we are most concerned about is his feeding and ability to contact enemy Wraith. If Dr. Beckett can somehow create a mild form of the retrovirus that will allow our food to satisfy him and stunt his ability to contact the Wraith while keeping his memory intact, I believe he will agree to the treatment."

"And if it fails and he does lose his memory?" Elizabeth asked.

"Then we tell him the truth this time," Teyla replied. "I believe that he will become more compliant with honesty than anything else we can offer."

"You forget he's a Wraith, Teyla," Ronon growled. Teyla turned to catch his glare, frustration welling up inside her. Ronon's skepticism was understandable, but his frequent questioning of authority swiftly grated on her nerves.

"He's also a Wraith who trusted us and saved our lives," John said, seeking to ease the tension. Ronon scowled and turned away, muttering about the whole thing being a bad idea. Teyla returned her gaze to Carson, who was running a hand through his hair.

"I suppose I could try it," he said carefully. "But it would be experimental at best, and I don't know how long something like that is going to take me to produce. And I want you to run this idea of yours by him before I try anything, lass. If it works, I want to make sure he's okay with it."

"And what if it doesn't work?" Rodney asked nervously.

"Then we use the original retrovirus," Elizabeth answered, leaning back in her seat. "For now, he'll remain in his quarters, under guard. We can try to get him to give us as much information as he can before we try anything. If it doesn't work, we can just wait until he's hungry enough to try anything, including the retrovirus."

"Dr. Weir, that is not just," Teyla insisted. Elizabeth glanced at her, a weariness hidden behind her chocolate eyes.

"I know, but it's the only thing we can do. At least that way he'll feel he has a choice."

"He'll never go for it," Ronon growled. "Even on the brink of starvation, he'd sooner attack one of us than give in."

"Not if he wishes to continue living," Teyla reminded him. Ronon shot her a quick glare before focusing his attention on the far wall, his predator like form emanating displeasure.

"If it comes to that we'll make a decision then," Elizabeth said as she pushed back her chair and began gathering the papers that has scattered over the table in the course of the briefing. "Dismissed."

Teyla inclined her head and stood, making her way for the door. Being on the far end of the room, she was one of the last to leave, with the exception of Elizabeth, who always stayed later to sort out one thing or another. The woman was going to push herself too hard one day.

As Teyla stepped out into the hall, a large figure suddenly pressed against her, one hand slamming into the wall beside her head, preventing her from leaving. Teyla started, but swiftly hid her shock when she realized who it was.

"This is a bad idea," Ronon insisted thickly, his dark eyes seeping with concern.

"Simply killing Michael is not the answer, Ronon," she replied, inclining her head in challenge.

"That's what you said the first time, and the time after that." Ronon's palm clenched into a fist. "Sooner or later, you're going to trust him one too many times. Just because he can talk and act like us won't make him human. There's no way of knowing what's going on inside that head of his."

"It was not Michael's intent to betray us."

"But he let it happen, and when things got too dangerous, he came crawling back to Atlantis, begging for our sympathy. You can't save him, Teyla. He's never going to become human."

Teyla's eyes hardened into flint. In one swift movement, she ducked under Ronon's arm and continued down the hall, the Satedan's eyes boring into her back.

o-o-o

"Michael."

He sat on his bed, staring out the window at the city bathed in the light of noon, his eyes filled with the same sadness Teyla had come to expect. Hearing her words, he glanced over at her just long enough to make eye contact before breaking it and returning his gaze to the window.

"You come again to try and convince me to take the treatment," he said bitterly, twining his fingers together in a distinctly human gesture. "You must have known before you came that I will not allow it."

"I came to suggest another option," she insisted. He glanced up at her again and rose from the bed, dropping his hands to his sides.

"And that would be?"

"I suggested that Dr. Beckett attempt to create a different retrovirus," Teyla explained. "One that will allow you to function completely as a human without erasing your memories or changing what you are."

Michael lowered his chin, mistrust growing evident on his face.

"And it was you who first thought of this option?"

"Yes."

His eyes hardened and he raised his head, mouth opening for a moment before he spoke, giving Teyla a disturbingly good view of his teeth, duller than a Wraith's, but sharper than a human's.

"And you are certain that Dr. Beckett can produce this?"

"No, I am not. But he has agreed to try, and for that you should be grateful. There are many who still wish to simply administer the retrovirus to you and leave you with the other transformed Wraith."

Michael turned, facing the opposite wall.

"And if this should work? How welcome will I truly be here in Atlantis?" he asked, folding his hands behind his back. Teyla exhaled softly.

"As welcome as you allow yourself to become," she replied.

"And if it does not work?"

Teyla cocked her head, an uncomfortable knot forming in her stomach.

"That is what we will face when the time comes that you must feed again."

"You still fear I will feed upon you," he said, his voice low with resignation.

"Or one of the many people in Atlantis," Teyla insisted.

Michael turned around, his confidence once again in place, chin raised.

"Very well," he allowed. "I will try this new treatment if it is successful. But know that if it is some ploy to turn me into a human once again…" he trailed off. Teyla nodded in understanding.

"I will not betray your trust.

o-o-o

She remembered the first time she had had to kill. It was some time after she had escaped the facility after the Wraith had fled. Being the only survivor, she had known little of what to eat or how to acquire food. For a time, she lived by consuming plants the beasts of the valley had eaten. But when winter approached and the plants began to wither, she grew desperate for food.

She had seen the forest cats and hunter birds eat the flesh of other animals, but she hadn't wanted to resort to that. The thought of killing for the sake of food turned her stomach and summoned an aching, stinging pain in her chest where a decoration of scars marred her sun-browned skin. She did not look like the Wraith, she knew, but after so many years of being near them, she had come to fear being like them. After all, of all the humans, why was it that she had been strong enough to survive and not the others?

It was a thought she frequently pushed from her mind.

As the days turned colder, however, the horror of killing was suppressed under the need for food. She sharpened stones together, telling herself it was to cut any plants she might find, though in her heart, she knew her true reasons for doing it.

She'd set out one day, insisting she wanted only to search for nuts and berries though she knew she would find none. Many of the forest creatures were gone, asleep in their dens, leaving no hope for the wild girl to eat. But she had not been the only one to feel such despair.

A wide eyed forest cat crept through the frozen underbrush nearby, eyeing her. At first, she did not dare suppose it would attack her. Such creatures had always avoided her as they had avoided the Wraith, seeing some semblance she could not understand. But as she made her way back through the valley, it followed her, its padded feet hardly making a sound. She swallowed and quickened her pace, her bare feet painfully loud against the ground.

The rustle of air was the only warning she had as the cat pounced through the air. She gasped and whirled around, catching a glimpse of the beast's pale, furred underbelly as it came down upon her.

Reflexively, her arms shot up to cover her face, her fingers gripping the sharpened stones tightly.

The cat fell upon her with a ferocious force, knocking her to the ground. She shut her eyes and choked for air, taking in the wild, furry musk of the animal through her nose. It was only a moment, now, before it stood and killed her. Only a moment.

But the moment never came. The cat continued to lie upon her, unmoving. Calming her breath, she began to squirm out from underneath the form, dropping her sharpened stones as she did so.

As she managed to free the upper half of her body, an icy wind hit her, biting into her skin and gnawing at her bone. Bringing her hands up to rub her shivering shoulders, thought fondly of how comfortable the cat's weight had been. It was then that she noticed the blood that soaked her hands.

She started and stared for a moment, awed by the sticky red substance that had not come from her own body. It took another glance at the forest cat to confirm the eerie thought that had crept into her mind.

It was dead.

The wild girl had tried not to think of it as she hauled the carcass back up to her cave. She tried not to look into its eyes as she took her knife to its fur, cutting and slashing sloppily until she had most of it off. She tried to clear her mind as she cut its flesh into strips and set them aside to be dried, nor as she took cleaned the bones and kept them in case they might prove useful someday.

It was only when she was cleaning the fur in the river the next day that she allowed herself to think of it. It had been a young cat, barely out of adolescence. It had only died because hunger had made it quick and careless. What might it have been had it lived longer?

She allowed herself a moment to grieve the creature's passing, hoping that it might no longer suffer now that it had escaped the icy winter. It was a thing that she had never considered before, but what happened to a creature when they died? What happened to that force that separated them from the slow plants, still stones, and solid earth?

It was a thought she would consider often for years to come, but as the sun rose higher in the sky, she returned to her cave to consider other things. How to hunt in the future, without turning herself into an open target.

As she skinned the pelt of a river-rat with her stone knife, she considered many such times of the past. The years had made her a contemplative and brooding thing, and even as she had grown more skilled in survival, she never failed to look back and remember her previous experiences, lest confidence be her downfall.

Striking two flints together, the wild girl started a small fire on which to roast her meat. Insects chirruped in the dark, and she leaned against the bark of an ancient tree, admiring the sparks as they danced up into the night sky and the smell of the river-rat's flesh cooking. It was a good night for remembering.

o-o-o

"Come on, Carson," John urged, watching in disapproval as the doctor hurried about his tent, checking various test tubes and microscopes that contained God-knew-what.

"I can't, Sheppard," Dr. Beckett insisted, finally halting his frantic movement to catch the Colonel's eye. "These people are my responsibility."

"So what, you plan here to stay indefinitely?" John said, shifting his grip on his P90. Carson's eyes narrowed, and almost as though he knew that it would irritate Sheppard, returned to check a microscope that contained what looked like a sample of Wraith flesh.

John glanced out the tent flap, ensuring that the guards he had assigned were still in place, then moved further in.

"Come on, doc," he insisted. "You showed them how to administer the drugs, and I think they're about ready to survive on their own, provided we make an occasional medical trip."

"I'm not so sure about that," Carson muttered, shifting the microscope lens ever so slightly. "They're confused amnesiacs, and if I were in there position, I don't really fancy I'd like the guy who's been patting their arms and telling them everything going to be okay to just up and vanish because you told him to."

"It's not like that, Carson," John groaned, rolling his eyes. Carson stood up straight and squared his shoulders, catching the Colonel's eyes.

"Is it, now?" he challenged. "Then tell me what it is like, because the way it looks to me now is that they need someone stable to reassure them that they aren't all going to suddenly die."

"They won't," Sheppard said with a shrug. "You know they won't, I know that they won't, and just to ensure that they know they won't, they'll keep taking the drugs on their own, like you trained them."

"I just need a little more time, Sheppard," Carson pleaded.

"We've been over this, Carson. We don't have time, we don't have resources, and we don't have enough of a reason to keep you here."

"What about the threat of reversion?" Carson asked quietly, lowering his voice for fear of any of the prisoners overhearing him.

"We've been over that, too."

"Well, I'm sorry if I'm still not keen about the idea of leaving them to kill each other off, I don't care what you and Ronon seem to think is best." Carson turned, making his way over to the other side of the tent. John followed, grabbing his shoulder and spinning him around to make eye contact.

"You're better off in Atlantis, Carson," John insisted firmly, tightening his grip on the doctor's shoulder. "If you leave soon, you can get more work done there, come up with a more permanent solution, and hopefully not become the little piggy crying 'whee whee whee' all the way home because his genetic weapon didn't work out."

Carson's icy eyes hardened and he shook off Sheppard's hand, turning around to stare out the plastic tent window-holes.

"Not yet, John. They aren't ready."

"Come on, Carson!" John groaned. "It's been two weeks."

"And that's sufficient time, you think, to ensure the stabilization of a newly transformed human society?" Carson demanded, throwing a glance over his shoulder. John sighed.

"Look, I don't want to argue this. My point is that they're doing fine, we can always come check up on them later. We need you in Atlantis." He frowned as Carson turned away again. "Did I mention that everyone really misses you? I mean, even Cadman's been bellyaching about how much she wishes you were in Atlantis."

"Now don't you try to use my personal life against me," Carson snapped, whirling around. In rapid hindsight, John realized that perhaps mentioning romantic interests for the sake of clearly ulterior motives probably wasn't the best way to win someone over. Rewind, delete, new tactic.

"How much more good can you really do here, doc?" John asked quickly. "The environment in Atlantis is better so you'd get it done faster. That way, if some sort of reversion does occur, you'll be more prepared. Versus here, where you'll probably only have half the work done. Besides, these guys are good for the moment, and there's someone in Atlantis who needs you. And I don't mean your girlfriend."

Carson frowned at the Colonel's repeated mention of his personal life, but the expression softened quickly.

"Is Michael not doing well?"

John shrugged.

"He's not dead. You said it yourself that it wasn't easy for a Wraith to die of malnutrition. But let's just say that the sooner you figure out how to work Teyla's little science project, the better off we'll all be."

"Has anything happened to him?" Carson asked, his face melting into an expression of genuine concern.

"Well, he's cranky," John replied. "Been cooped up in that room for, what, three weeks now? He's still pretty pissed at all of us unless we talk very, very nice to him. But he won't eat anything."

"I don't understand," Carson said. "He does know that human food can sustain him for quite a while until I figure something out. At least, it can with the human DNA he still possesses."

"I didn't say he can't eat," Sheppard corrected, holding up a hand. "I said won't. It's like getting a damn five year old to taste broccoli or something. He'll only eat if someone basically has him at gunpoint, and after a while, that got old."

"Why would he do that?"

"I dunno. Michael's just weird like that, I haven't bothered to ask. But I suggest you come home soon and do something about it."

o-o-o

Please Review!


	3. The New Path

A/N: Yes, I'm sure the public stoning is on the way for this late update. I have to confess that I'm extremely petty and absent-minded, and need frequent encouragement to return to work on a story, particularly an outdated AU like this one. However, the new season of SGA has reminded me why I began writing this at all, so here I am again, updating.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the wild girl you occasionally see. Perhaps if I rap about how I love Stargate, I shall be given the opportunity to meet the producers and writers and convince them to hand over the rights.

o-o-o

Teyla nodded to the guards as she entered the room, tray in hand. She hadn't bothered to put much on it; just bread and cheese. There was no use wasting good food on someone who didn't want to eat it, and it had long since been proved that the more enticing meals were useless in attracting Michael's attentions.

He sat on the bed, staring out the window as he always did, still dressed in his Wraith attire. He had insisted that, until he saw a reason for it, he would not ally himself with them so thoroughly that he would begin to impersonate the Atlanteans in his attire.

His shoulders were hunched from fatigue, his proud neck bent slightly, and though she could not see his face, she anticipated his eyes were weary. Michael had not been sleeping well, and it became more obvious each day. Her heart ached at the thought, for –despite his earlier betrayal of their trust- Teyla, Sheppard, and Weir had done their best to welcome him.

On the desk sat his previous tray from breakfast, cold and untouched. The Athosian sighed.

"Michael, you should eat."

His head rose slowly and he turned to glance around at her. Etched into the translucent gray skin beneath his eyes were dark circles, confirming Teyla's suspicions about his exhaustion. Michael sneered and turned away again.

"You say that each time you come, Teyla," he growled.

"It would not be so if you would take my suggestions to heart." She strode over to the desk and set the new tray down next to the old one. "It would do you good."

Michael snorted derisively and Teyla glanced back at him, now catching a better view of his face twisted into a pained expression comprised of multiple emotions. The Athosian stood up straighter, deciding against the urge to approach him, as she might to comfort a human.

"Why will you not eat, Michael?" she implored. Michael's face hardened into a calm mask, his eyes taking on a familiar mournful deepness.

"It does nothing to satisfy me," he answered levelly. "If anything, it reminds me all the more that this food cannot sustain me indefinitely, and that only serves to fuel my hunger."

Teyla hazarded several steps forward. Michael did not flinch away, as he might have once, which was encouraging enough. Perhaps he was truly growing used to her, if no one else.

"It could be that these things are all in your mind, Michael," she suggested.

He glanced up, his jaw clenching tightly. Teyla almost retreated a step, but caught herself before she could.

"And if it isn't?" he demanded coldly. She tilted her head; a common response she had developed over the weeks to his frequent questions.

"Then it could be in your mind that a better answer lies."

Michael grunted and turned his gaze back out the window. Teyla noticed with some regret that his body did not relax.

"You quote Dr. Heightmeyer, Teyla. I would think that you could come up with something better."

"Occasionally Dr. Heightmeyer provides me with valuable advice," Teyla explained. "I am not ashamed to use her words if they are good ones. And in this case, I believe they are fitting."

Silence fell between them, and in the light shining through the Atlantean glass of Michael's window, the Wraith's weariness became more obvious. Perhaps he had nightmares of the Wraith and the cool distaste he had described. Or perhaps it was the weeks he had been among them, confused and trusting, and the ultimate betrayal that had led to.

"Dr. Beckett has returned from the planet," Teyla said hopefully. "He has already begun research on the drug to help you."

"And then what?" he asked automatically.

The Athosian suppressed a sigh of remorse. It had become such a common question of his. 'What will happen then? What will happen when I am on the drug? What will you do? What can I do?' And always, Teyla's answer was the same.

"I do not know."

Michael did not respond to the monotonous answer, having heard and anticipated it too many times for it to retain any sense of meaning for him.

"You should eat, Michael," Teyla suggested once again. "At least nourish your body enough to improve your rest."

Michael's head shot up and he glanced around to see the Athosian's form as she slipped out his bedroom doors. The guards slid them shut behind her, leaving him once again in solitude.

o-o-o

Beckett sat bent over his notes, frustration gnawing at him from the inside, and from more than one source. Part of him was still upset with Sheppard for taking him from the two hundred prisoners. Despite however many military personnel remained on the planet, the fact that a medical emergency would go unanswered was a very real fact.

Even as he pulled his mind away from those anxieties, it only wrapped around the problems here in Atlantis. Namely, the solution for what to do with Michael. He was relieved that it hadn't come to forcing the retrovirus on the lad, but Teyla's suggestion, while possible in theory, was proving steadily more difficult by trial.

What worried him most was Michael's anatomy. Just by looking at him, it was easy to tell that he was not a normal Wraith. But aside from his physical human attributes, it was likely that his internal systems had been altered as well. Clearly, he had to feed more often than the typical Wraith, but he could survive longer on human food.

So, the retrovirus did have lasting effects. If it was administered again, was it likely that he would become even more of a hybrid? And if it was administered enough times, allowing for reversion in between, could it be possible that Teyla's suggestion would find him naturally? He was half-tempted to try it.

But Michael would never agree to it. The only way he was taking the retrovirus was through duress, and wasn't the point of this whole endeavor to avoid forcing the retrovirus on him?

A sudden beeping jolted the doctor from his musings and Beckett's head shot up, his eyes locking with the alarm clock.

Twelve o'clock. Damn.

He halfheartedly began shuffling his papers back into some semblance of order, his tired hands fumbling to sort through them. Before he could even truly begin to clean up the workspace, however, he heart soft footsteps padding across the floor. He recognized the gait well enough to know who she was before she halted by his desk.

"Carson," Laura Cadman chided gently. Beckett leaned back in his seat, rubbing the heel of his hand into one of his eyes.

"I'm sorry, Laura," he sighed. "I lost track of time again, I know."

Laura reached out and grabbed his arm, pulling it down and directing his vision at her face. A slight smile tugged at her lips.

"Hey," she breathed, rubbing her thumb in small circles over his hand. "I understand. But damn, you've gotta learn to let yourself relax once in a while."

"I can't," he muttered. "Each day I don't find a solution is a day our options grow thinner."

Cadman released his hand and leaned up against the table, her sunshine-blonde hair falling forward to frame a face veiled with concern.

"Teyla told me Michael wasn't eating," the Marine said. Carson nodded wearily.

"Aye, and a right bit of trouble it's causing me. But even now, I can't say I blame him too much."

"So you blame yourself," she said bluntly, her face puckering into one of irritation. "Don't think I don't know you, Carson. Listen, it's okay to call yourself the big bad doctor, but when that pushes you to this kind of exhaustion, you've gotta learn to take a break. When I focus too hard or think too much with my job, I end up shooting as bad as Rodney. Nothing near what I am when I'm rested."

"I know," Beckett admitted sadly. It was ironic, he and she. Laura was a Marine and a bomb specialist. She measured destructive tendencies and could probably kill a man with her pinky if she applied enough force. He was a doctor and a geneticist. He saved lived and studied the roots of human existence. That their jobs could be so similar was astounding.

"Hello, Carson," she said suddenly. Beckett started, then relaxed back into his chair. Cadman smiled, her blue eyes twinkling with amusement. "For a second there I thought your mind was halfway back to the Milky Way."

"Sorry," he apologized. "I'm just a wee bit tired."

"You ought to get some rest."

"Aye, I will. Just let me get a little more done tonight."

"Okay," she allowed with a nod. "Just another hour, and then off to bed with you. Girlfriend's orders."

She leaned in and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. Carson smiled, watching fondly as she turned and began to make her way out of the infirmary, he socks padding quietly on the ground. It was always like her to check up on him when he pulled all-nighters, purposeful or not.

"Laura," he called. She turned to glance at him and he smiled wryly. "I'm sorry I missed our date."

She shrugged and waved it off before slipping out into the hall.

Once she had left, Carson's previous peace dissolved and he leaned over his desk, spreading out his notes and returning to the arduous task ahead of him.

o-o-o

She hugged her trembling shoulders, trying to slow her breath, but all she could take were shuddering gasps. Her stomach churned like the white-topped river, threatening to reject the meat she had devoured earlier. Her skin burned like fire, and even the once comforting breeze failed to bring anything more than pain. Beneath her breast, her heart fluttered like a captive bird, so ferocious she feared it might burst.

Just another moment, she told herself. Just another moment and it will pass.

But another moment stretched on like a life age for her. Each sound the forest made, from snapping twigs to rustling leaves, was agonizing. The bark of the tree she leaned against grew treacherously sharp against her sensitive skin, and never had her old tunic felt more useless.

Light stretched into an endless void, blinding her. She tried to move someplace darker, more comfortable to wait it out, but her muscles had locked into place.

Her body began to shake harder and she hitched her breath, whimpering as she began to feel control slipping away. Her legs began to jerk and twitch, her hands tightening and loosening around her arms without her consent.

As always, she began pulling up her long-practiced mental barriers. The less the felt, the less it hurt.

o-o-o

When she awoke, dusk had slipped into the sky above, painting the woods in a golden sunset. Rustles of night birds escaping their perches tore through the air. The wild girl winced once at the sound, then again as she began to feel her body.

Bruises and cuts marred any flailing limb that had been unfortunate enough to smash into a tree or rock. Her head throbbed, and as she tried to sit up, the world spun. She knew better than to close her eyes, though, as she had once done in the past. That could only serve to disorient her further.

When at last the world returned to focus, she stumbled to her feet. It would be best for her to take care of this immediately, before her uneasy feeling fell once more into the pain and shaking.

She staggered around the ancient oak, slipping on the leaves and twigs that coated the ground, and dropped to her knees before her pack. Without hesitation, she untied the blanket's knots and threw the corners apart, digging in and pulling out one of the wicked syringes. Shutting her eyes, the wild girl placed the needle on a familiar part of her arm and pushed it in, hissing at the stinging bite.

It was several seconds before the syringe was empty. The second it was, she dropped it back onto the blanket and fell back against the ancient oak. A sickening, invasive feeling overcame her. Her ribs twisted, her stomach shuddered as a prickling sensation crawled over her skin. She hated using the syringes, but she knew that not using them would surely kill her. But she would have to learn to use them sparingly, lest she run out.

Heaving a sigh, the wild girl closed her eyes and brought her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. It was going to be a long night.

o-o-o

"Heya Mikey."

Michael cringed at the cocky tenor voice, refusing to turn and grace Sheppard with so much as a glance. These visits had become annoyingly frequent, and fewer of them by Teyla and her pet Ronon.

He sighed, clasping his hands behind his back and glaring out the window at the world below. The white capped, poison-salt waves, the occasional bird fluttering through the air, the splash of a fish being overtaken by a predator beneath the surface, all beyond the towers and spires of the great city. It was all so clean and perfect; mind numbing in its preciseness.

"Hey, Michael!" Sheppard ambled into the room, irritation seeping into his voice. Michael would have smirked if it had been worth the effort. Nothing seemed worth an effort anymore. Nothing save standing and staring. And breathing and sleeping and fighting the hunger that was coursing through him.

Sheppard grabbed his shoulder suddenly, whirling him around. A sudden heat coursed through his chest. Michael's hand shot out, prepared to pierce the chest of the human before him.

Teyla's face flashed through his mind, and he stopped himself just short of feeding on the Colonel. No. The Athosian and the doctor were working on her compromise; if he fed now, he would lose his only chance to live. The wraith wouldn't take him; not once they learned what he was responsible of. These Lanteans were his only hope.

They might not be entirely pleased if he 'ate' their commanding officer.

Sheppard had frozen, his dark eyes wide with surprise and fear, though his body stiffened, issuing a silent challenge. Michael growled deep in his throat, clenching his hand into a fist and turning violently back to the window. Burning, aching hunger throbbed through every part of his body, and the Colonel's presence was doing nothing to dissipate it.

The city view had lost much of its charm.

o-o-o

Carson Beckett had come to a conclusion that he truly hated Wraith. It wasn't their severe superiority complexes that did it, as Sheppard might have reasoned. Nor was it their dank, insectoid appearances, coupled with their insatiable thirst for hunting. It wasn't even their ability to suck the life out of a living, breathing man that spurred such hatred.

It was the Wraith anatomy.

Time after time, Carson had been so certain he had found the cure, so positive he could finally complete his task and rid Atlantis of the threat of a hungry misanthrope currently locked in his quarters.

Frustrated, Laura had even stopped visiting him in the infirmary, insisting that she'd rather take a jog or practice her aim rather than sit in his office watching him mope about as he looked over his notes. As a result, many of the marines developed a grudge toward the doctor. Apparently, Laura tended to transform from perky, tap-dancing bomb expert into moody, snappy Queen of Crankiness whenever something in her personal life displeased her.

Teyla, who had the most frequent contact with Michael, had taken it into her own hands to pester him day and night about the new retrovirus. Simultaneously, Ronon tended to drop not-so-subtle hints about the ease with which Beckett could easily poison the Wraith and be done with all the trouble.

Then there was Rodney, ever the hypochondriac, checking into the infirmary either to have his own minor injuries looked after or to escort one of his colleagues, if only to insist it certainly wasn't his fault they'd been hurt. Not to mention Sheppard, who never seemed to have anything to do, poking in to be nosy, and Weir who was growing especially antsy about Michael's condition.

With all the unneeded pressures weighing down on him, Carson barely noticed the test that worked. He'd simply placed the readings aside, as he had with so many others, allowing them to serve as nothing more than an itch in the back of his mind.

Three experiments later, the itch grew unbearable. Carson dove back into his pile and dug out the readings, looking them over once. Twice.

Five minutes later, he stormed into the lab, yelling for every able doctor or nurse with any experience in genetics at all to follow him, and for the patients to sit tight for just a few more hours ("I'm bleeding here, and you're taking away my nurse!?" Rodney exclaimed).

The retrovirus was completed before dusk fell upon the city.

o-o-o

Hunger. It was all he knew, all he felt anymore. How long had it been since he had last fed? How long since he had been locked in this city of enemies?

Desperation had forced him to eat human food, but the feeling of anything on his palette was repulsive. Everything he ate was cold, bland, and nauseating, and no matter the amount he ate, nothing would truly satisfy his hunger. Perhaps if he'd consumed human food before the need to feed had set in, he might not have found himself living in such discomfort, but hindsight was of little use to him.

In an effort to distract himself, he called for books. It was satisfying for a time to puzzle at decrypting the alien symbols on the pages, trying to discern which collection of characters pertained to which word. What a clever invention for humans to have developed a method for reading from such things.

In too short a time, though, the books could no longer distract him.

He took to pacing his room, wringing his hands, growling at himself under his breath, anything to distract him from the growing need for sustenance.

Seeing his distress, the humans had completely abandoned any hope of approaching him, and even the guards tended to stand just a bit further away from his door than they previously had. Even Teyla Emmagen had ceased coming into his room attempting to pacify him. Even she, the eternal optimist in his case, seemed to have given up.

In a final effort, he had taken to hibernation. The practice was difficult without a chamber on a ship, but it was not impossible. The bed became his hive, the blankets and pillows the soft webbing upon which he slept. His dreams were filled with hunger, but also what memories had survived the retrovirus.

He remembered the hunts and the thrill of chasing humans. Their faces were always terrible to behold, but the rush of energy as he fed was well worth the sight of them. He remembered when he had undergone the transformation from child to adult, and the pride he had carried from then on. He could recall few actual events, but the pride was always there. He recalled that, just before his capture, he had dreamed of being granted the privilege of mating with his queen. After his freakish transformation, however, that dream had been crushed.

He dreamed of his first imprisonment among the humans. Teyla's benevolent lies, Dr. McKay's nervous gestures, Ronon Dex's savage honesty, Dr. Beckett's weary care… Life had been simple under the façade, but not entirely pleasant as his Wraith memories and instincts held firm. He recalled his escape, the sanctuary of his hive, his return, the betrayal of his queen. More vivid than any other memory was her face as he pleaded on the behalf of honor. It was then that he had realized what he was.

A freak. An outcast. His every hesitance and second thought was hindered by the realization her face had given him. The Wraith were not his race any longer. Faced with the threat of death or compliance, the humans were his only hope for survival. Even knowing what they would probably do to him in the end, he could only trust that he could regain his memories on his own.

How long he slept was a mystery. Some part of his dreams was interrupted by a sharp pain that coursed through his body, but it was only an instant until he returned to his previous state. Then, there was something shaking his shoulder, jarring him out of his rest.

Michael's eyes flashed open. Thoughtlessly, his hand lashed out to feed upon the nearest entity, but he found his wrists to be tied together. Bewildered, he glanced about to see Dr. Beckett flanked by two men similarly clad in the garb of doctors.

"Easy," Beckett said, his grip on Michael's shoulder tightening. "I need you to relax."

"What are you doing here?" Michael demanded.

"I've completed the new retrovirus," Beckett explained. It was only then that Michael realized that one of the men held in his hands a white, plastic box. "If all goes well, this should enable you to feed as we humans do without dramatic change to your wraith anatomy."

"My memories?" Michael demanded.

"They should remain intact," Beckett replied. "If they don't, I have every assurance that you won't be deceived again."

The doctor, of course, was not entirely truthful and they both knew it. Sheppard or Weir would most likely command the same web of lies if Beckett's retrovirus failed. He would be transformed into a human and abandoned, left to live and die in ignorance. Beckett's gaze faltered with the obvious guilt he felt.

"Michael," he sighed. "Are you sure this is what you want? You can never rejoin the wraith, but if you take the original retrovirus, you could live peacefully among the other transformed inhabitants of your ship."

"And then what will I be?" Michael snarled. "A traitor? Or perhaps more of a freak than I already am?"

Beckett swallowed and bowed his head.

"Very well," he muttered.

The box was opened. Michael watched intently as Beckett readied the syringe. His every instinct desired to feed upon the humans who had so foolishly ventured into his domain. But he continually repeated to himself 'Just a moment more. Wait until he has given you the injection. Wait just a moment more.'

His arm was mopped with iodine, then Beckett pressed the needle against his skin and injected the new retrovirus.

Michael gritted his teeth against the familiar burning sensation that pulsed through his arm as Beckett pressed the plunger.

It was only a moment after Beckett had cleaned and bandaged the puncture hold that he began to feel the effects of the drug. His stomach turned and twisted violently. Michael coughed and curled into a ball, breathing shallowly. A thin coat of perspiration sprang up from his pale skin.

Distantly, he heard Dr. Beckett ordering his companions to leave; that he could keep watch on his own.

It proved to be a long night.

o-o-o

The wild girl awoke cold, cramped, and clammy, but feeling intensely more at ease than she had in days. Above her, the sky shone bright, occasionally brushed over with white stretches of clouds. Birds whistled to each other in challenge or greeting, while the trees sang a hushed good morning.

She yawned and sat up, stretching out her arms as a cat did. It was a good morning.

She gathered her pack together and spent the morning scavenging for food, which was scarcer this high up on the mountain. The air, too, was in shorter supply, and more and more often she found herself stopping to catch her breath. To pass the time, she practiced imitating the birds.

By midafternoon, she had found her next resting place, both secluded from predators but near enough to a small stream that she could comfortably gather water at her leisure. With all matters of importance settled, she elected to spend the rest of the afternoon exploring the mountain.

She stashed the pack in a hollow tree trunk, ripped away at the bark of a conspicuous tree for future tracking, and left to look around.

She hiked up to the very precipice, grateful that hers was a small mountain. Below, the trees swelled in a great lake of greens, grays, and browns. Birds, perhaps the most abundant species she had ever encountered, flitted about under the burning sun while a multitude of wood-rodents scampered up and down the rough trunks. The sky stretched onward, the deep blue fading into a pale white of clouds beyond the other mountains.

And deep below, in the valley that was sister to the one she had known all her life, she saw a strange sight.

A great ring seemed to grow from the ground. Lights as she had never seen in nature shone at its edges. A great pool of water balanced in the ring, glistening in the sunlight as though its upright position was absolutely normal.

Then, like a flying fish bursting out of a stream, a figure came through the gate carrying a series of long, white poles. The wild girl stumbled back against a tree. The figure was not wraith, but prey, like herself. How long had it been since she had seen another?

The figure was followed by a second, carrying more cargo, and a third. In the span of a few minutes, no less than twelve such people were gathered in the field before the ring, setting up strange structures with the materials they had brought with them and speaking in foreign tongues.

o-o-o

He awoke to hunger; a gnawing, burning emptiness that flooded his steadily weakening body. His mind screamed for nourishment. If he did not hunt, he would die.

Michael's eyes flew open, beholding a strange place that stirred some sense of familiarity in the back of his brain, but little enough to provide comfort. Hot early light poured in through uncovered windows, filling the room with an almost painful brightness. The light reflected off of mirrors, picture frames, knives, and any other metallic token that he could recognize but hardly claim as his own.

Someone murmured his name, the one the humans had given him. A flash of movement.

Human.

Food.

Instinctively, he lunged, arm outstretched. A sudden jolt of pain exploded in his back, burning at his every sense.

He collapsed back onto the bed.

o-o-o

There you are. Please review, let me know what you think. I like to know ya'll haven't been eaten.


	4. Changes

A/N: I promised an update for the new year, and while I admit it's a wee bit late in coming cringes it's nevertheless here. I got grounded, otherwise I'd have posted back in December. Anyway, your wondrous reviews reminded this petty author that she needed to write, so here it is. (keep reviewing so aforementioned petty author gets of her lazy bum)

Disclaimer: Still don't own SGA. Might take out my resentment about that on the characters. thumbs up Yup, that means possible increase in whump.

o-o-o

Light burned, penetrating his eyelids as though they were little more than tissue paper. He groaned and turned his head aside, seeking to return to the dark haze he had wandered in only a moment before, but it was no use. He was painfully, irrevocably awake.

With a soft groan, Michael cracked open his eyes and took in his surroundings. He was in a cool-colored room, and though familiarity itched in the back of his mind, he could not remember what significance this place held. His stomach ached, his throat burned, and he wanted nothing more than to rub the sleep out of his eyes and explore his surroundings further.

When he attempted to lift his hand, however, he discovered unexpected resistance. His wrists and ankles had been restrained. Bewildered, he pulled at his wrists, heart throbbing.

"You were violent when last you woke," an alto voice explained. Michael glanced to the side and saw a woman sitting in a chair beside his bed, the sun warming her nut brown skin. She stared at him uncertainly, with a strange emotion in her eyes. Confusion, perhaps, or trepidation?

He searched anxiously through his memory until, at last, he unearthed a name.

"Teyla." His voice escaped, low and rough. Then, like the breaking sun of dawn, he recalled who and where he was.

Teyla's face broke into a smile of evident relief.

"I am glad you are better this time," she said with perfect sincerity. "We had feared the retrovirus had not worked."

He paused, mulling over her words, and wondered for a moment what might have happened had it not worked. He could not escape the undeniable threat of death as he was, but would they really have killed him, had the experiment failed in some way? Even with the protection of Teyla and Beckett, he did not doubt it. Thankfully, he had been allowed to live a while longer.

And yet the cost was undeniable. For perhaps the first time, he was conscious of the differences in his anatomy; parts of him had been fundamentally altered in the name of survival. Despite his relief, he felt ill at the prospect of this body, now alien to him.

"It worked," he said carefully. "I can feel it." And he didn't like it.

Teyla glanced aside awkwardly, and Michael cringed. Did he look so different, or could she not stand his inhuman face, even after all this time?

"Here," she said, reaching for a tray on the floor and presenting it to him. "Dr. Beckett wishes you to eat something before he arrives."

Michael tugged pointedly at his restraints, fixing Teyla with a look that might have rivaled one of Sheppard's. Her hesitance was evident, but she set the tray down nevertheless and undid the straps that bound his wrists to the bed. He pushed himself up, moaning as his stiff muscles protested the sudden movement.

The tray appeared in his lap, and Michael stared down at the human food before him. There was bread, several slices of fruit, and some form of thin broth that might have been considered soup. His mind itched. He knew these foods, he'd eaten them before, and yet he could not recall their names or tastes.

Teyla stared at him, her eyes hopeful but stern. He was going to eat, whether or not he chose to.

Michael's stomach churned, nausea battling hunger. This was perhaps one of the worst aspects of being human. As a wraith, there was little to turn hunger aside. When one needed to feed, the body did not turn aside from that instinctive need. The human digestive system was too uncertain for his tastes. Unfortunately, that very system was the purpose of the new retrovirus.

Uncertainly, he reached for a slice of the fruit and held it in his fingers for several moments, examining it. His hand, at the very least, remained wraithlike in appearance. Though his nails were short and ill-suited for much, his skin shone pale in the morning light. How odd it was that such a hand should hold such an object as a slice of fruit. It was almost comical.

Resigned, he brought the fruit to his mouth and bit down on it. Sweetness flooded his mouth. He chewed at the fruit, its soft, grainy flesh coming apart easily in his teeth, which seemed to be somewhat duller and better suited for chewing than they had been before. He swallowed, still focusing on the phantom taste that filled his mouth.

He seized another slice and stared at it. The itch in his mind grew painful until, at last, illumination dawned upon him.

"This is called a pear," he said aloud, carefully examining the slice in his hand as though it was an interesting cell sample for research. Yes, he remembered this food. He had eaten it during his initial imprisonment. One of his guards had described fruit as a Lantean delicacy, as their traditional foods were imported from Earth.

He glanced up to see Teyla standing over him, studying him carefully. His stomach churned, and for a moment he feared his new body might perform the disgusting human act of vomiting. It stilled itself, however, and the Athosian said nothing. She turned instead and returned to her seat, still watching him.

He continued with the meal, not meeting her gaze, and kept all further revelations to himself.

o-o-o

"Well, you look to be in fairly good health," Beckett reported, pulling back from his examination of Michael's pupils. "How do you feel, then?"

Michael ground his jaw, considering his answer carefully. Even knowing that his survival depended upon Beckett's retrovirus, he wanted nothing more than to spit in the face of the doctor who had placed him in this situation in the first place.

He shoved the urge aside. He was no fool.

"Stiff," he answered thickly.

Beckett nodded toward a youngish-looking nurse, who hurried to jot the information down.

"Anything else?"

Michael paused, glancing from Beckett to the nurse to the ever-watchful form of Teyla. Their very presence was humiliating, and here he was forced to degrade himself further in their eyes.

"My… memory," he said brokenly. "It has been slower in returning than I had hoped."

Color drained from Beckett's face and, in one movement, he seized the clipboard from the nurse's hands and began flipping through, his brows furrowed in concentration.

"That shouldn't have happened," he muttered, eyes darting over the page. Puzzled, he handed the clipboard back to the silent nurse, directing his gaze once again at Michael. "How much can you say has returned to you?"

"Most of it by now," Michael retorted, and even to his own ears his tone sounded defensive. At the disbelieving expression Teyla threw him, Michael averted his eyes. She had no right to judge him.

"Well, if you have any questions, come straight to me or Teyla," Beckett instructed gently. Michael nodded jerkily, his eyes fixed upon the floor. Several tense seconds passed, in which the doctor grasped vainly for some appropriate remark. In the end, it was Teyla who shattered the silence.

"Do you feel well enough to walk with me through the city?"

Michael snorted at the offer.

"Only if you suppose my guards will allow it," he growled. Her eyes went instantly to the door, where two marines stood guard. To them, it didn't matter that his hand bore only dim scars of what had once been their greatest fear. Nor did it matter that he was, in essence, their prisoner. He had never been, nor could he ever be, human, and that made him the enemy.

Teyla turned back to him, a false smile plastered on her face that could not hide the uncertainty in her eyes.

"I am certain it will not be a problem," she assured him. "So long as Dr. Beckett approves?"

Beckett hesitated, but it took him little time to relent.

"Aye, well, I suppose it would be good for him to be out of his room," the doctor allowed. "But try not to bump into Ronon, will you, lass? Last thing I need is those two putting more on my plate."

"I promise," Teyla said solemnly.

o-o-o

A cool breeze wafted off of the ocean, wrapping them in the soothing if pungent scent of salt. The Atlantean sunset bathed them in a golden light, warming Teyla's brown skin to a soft glow while Michael's turned a sickly sort of yellow.

How wretched he looked!

The Lantean city was a fascinating one, even he would admit it, and yet for all the wonders that surrounded him, he could not look away from the darkened window that revealed his hideous new form. His skin had darkened almost to the pale peach it had been when he was human, his features less definite in the terms of what they had once been. His hair was not quite the blonde it had been among the humans, but neither was it the snowy white he had once boasted.

His stomach churned as he raised his right hand, palm upward. The dark, vertical scar stood as nothing more than a memento of his former life.

Teyla Emmagen came up beside him, her steps silent as though she was nothing more than a breeze of the wind. He rolled his hand into a fist and crossed his arms protectively. It was a childish notion, he knew, but he did not want her to see.

"You are displeased," she intoned.

Michael ground his now flat teeth together, glaring at her reflection in the dark glass.

"I wonder about you, sometimes," he murmured, his voice coming out in a low growl. "You once claimed that the wraith were evil. These people you have allied yourself with took me and tried to make me into something I am not. Is that not evil in itself?"

"We only sought to end this war peacefully," she argued.

"War is not peaceful," he spat. "It is such ideals that drive humans to commit acts such as these." He lifted his chin, his eyes leaving the mirror and turning to the woman beside him. Teyla returned his stare, her own eyes wide and challenging.

"I do not wish to argue with you, Michael." The warning was evident in her voice and, despite himself, Michael turned away to sit on an ancient bench, overlooking the expanse of the ocean. Like a strange sort of guardian feline, Teyla sat beside him.

The waves crashed against the docks and the wind whistled through minute alleyways in the city around him. Distantly, the sounds reminded him of a hive ship. With no small amount of effort, he forced the thought from his head.

"My people have a saying," Teyla said suddenly. "Think, then feel. The wraith think, they form theories, they act, but they do not feel. The Atlanteans attempt to think and feel at the same time, and as you have seen, it makes a mess. They wish for a single answer that might apply to every situation."

"If your people knew better," Michael countered without hesitation. "Then why did you go along with their plan?"

"I had hoped that someday my children would not live under the threat I knew all my life," she answered with equal quickness.

"Humans are… very close with their own offspring," he said uncertainly. Teyla turned to him, brows raised slightly.

"Yes," she replied, a hint of surprise seeping into her voice. "At least, for the most part that is true. The wraith are not, I suppose."

"I… could not tell you," he admitted shamefully. He remembered so little of his former life beyond the vague knowledge that he had been a scientist. Had he ever been granted the privilege of mating with the Queen? Had he sired offspring? If so, were they, too, intelligent, or mere drones? Suppose he had once even known the honor of siring a female.

None of it mattered now. Not that it ever had. He would have hardly viewed 'fatherhood' as these humans did. It was only because of the humanity he now held that he considered the prospect at all, from the perspective of a weaker being that sought some purpose before its short life was extinguished forever.

Teyla watched him, her expression pensive.

"Perhaps you will feel more welcome if you come to understand more human customs," she ventured hopefully. "Earth men seem fond of a game called 'football'. Perhaps you, too, might enjoy it?"

A thrill of some emotion he could not recognize ran up his chest, and Michael sneered.

"You wish to justify what these people have done," he snarled. "Kind acts cannot overcome betrayal."

"Then perhaps you do not know your own heart as well as a human might," Teyla snapped, standing in one fluid motion, her form silhouetted in the setting sun as she glared down at him. "It is a custom among humans far across this galaxy and the next, and it is called forgiveness. You can do naught but criticize us when you yourself seem incapable of it."

"I _live_ in the shadow of your betrayal!" he roared, jumping to his feet, his fists clenched as he matched her stare. "You have trapped me in a duality that condemns me, and yet you dare to ask me to forgive you."

"Perhaps you should accept what you are," Teyla barked, seizing his right hand and digging her fingers into it, forcing his palm open to reveal the dull scar.

Michael jerked his hand back, struggling to smother the impulse to backhand her. The guards may have been out of sight, but they were far from gone.

"If you cannot release your anger, then your time in Atlantis will be very lonely," Teyla insisted

"It won't be anything new," he growled.

Her eyes widened a hair, her nostrils flaring in anger she dared not express. Without even a huff of fury, she turned on her heel and stalked off down the open balcony, her skin glowing in the fading light. In an instant, two marines seemed to melt out of the city itself, their fingers twitching over their guns expectantly.

Michael snorted and turned, allowing the soldiers to lead him back to his quarters.

o-o-o

Her heart throbbed as she crept into the camp, inching past the tents that held sleeping prey. One snored gently, then moaned unintelligible words that made her breath catch in her chest until he fell silent again.

She moved on, picking out strange shapes in the dark of the night. In the center of the camp stood a tent more massive than any of the others, from which the prey often scurried, sometimes excitedly, sometimes with dejected expressions weighing their faces down.

What fascinated her most was the way their mannerisms resembled those of the wraith. Who were these prey, that they felt free to experiment in such a matter? For days now she had watched them from the trees, trying to make sense of the odd tongues they spoke in. She had never seen creatures that chattered so incessantly, save for the songbirds at dawn. Prey were not bold creatures, and yet these behaved as though they had no fear.

Several times she had sought to gain their attention. Sitting in the branches of low-hanging trees, she tossed nuts or cones at them until they turned to her. Each time, however, her heart failed her and she had scurried away. Fascinating though they were, these prey had eyes unlike any she had seen before.

The flaps of the large tent rustled softly in the breeze. She shivered in anticipation, reaching out and brushing her fingers against the strange, tough material. Excitement welled up within her like a spring and, before she could stop herself, she pelted through the flaps into the tent.

Shelves and desks lined the interior of the tent, and she gasped at the sight of it all. Strange instruments in all shapes and sizes hummed, winked, flashed, and beeped softly to themselves. Samples of soil, flora, and water were scattered about in some strange order she could not discern.

Eyes wide, she prowled through the dark interior of the tent, her arms thrust out, fingers brushing against the foreign objects. This place so resembled the facility she had once known, it almost frightened her. Almost, but for the wonder she felt, knowing that it was prey, her own race, that had created this.

She paused before one of the devices, peering closely. A long tube extended over a small panel of glass. The contraption was bedecked with gears and knobs that she could not resist touching, to little result.

Growing bored with the device, she returned to exploring the tent, her fingers lightly brushing all its surfaces, as though she could somehow glean some understanding from it. She didn't know what purpose the Wraith had had for places like these, but she could guess it had to do with food and survival. The Prey who had erected this building probably didn't have the same intentions, though.

Her fingers came to rest on a… thing. Fat, warm, and clearly metal, it let loose a low hum that she did not like. Prey had such strange things like this; nothing at all organic, nothing living though it feigned life. She wanted to back away from it, but curiosity compelled her to explore further.

The thing was complex; that much she could tell, with several thick cords coming out of it, connecting the thing to lights and other odd contraptions in the room. Linked to them, perhaps, for a specific reason?

She spotted an entire collection of cords lying near the thing, as though abandoned. She picked them up, one by one, examining the odd prongs that came from their ends. One of the cords from the thing had a box attached to it, containing many holes that looked like slots for these to go in. Giddily, she slipped one of the cords in.

Another light came on in the tent.

Without consideration, the girl inserted all of the cords into the box and watched in awe as the tent came alive with light and sound.

The hum of the thing grew louder, more high pitched.

Her stomach dropped. Whatever it was doing now, she didn't want to stay to find out.

Leaving the cords, she dashed out of the tent, the crunch of her bare feet against the grass hidden by the sounds coming from the tent. She did not stop to turn back until she had reached the safety of the forest, where these strange Prey never came.

A handful were piling out of their tents, babbling in their foreign tongue in a surprised, disgruntled fashion. One opened the door to the big tent-

In time for a heavy 'boom!' to pierce the air. The girl's heart froze. The man stood utterly still, staring inside the tent, a quarter of which was now in flames. Instantly, they were all awake and rushing about like a swarm of insects when a stone had been dropped upon its home. Orders were shouted, actions were taken.

She might have stayed to watch, but a heavy feeling had slipped into the pit of her stomach, and she longed for the safety of her own camp. As she stumbled back in the darkness, her hands shook. She had always assumed that Prey, while clever, were rather incapable of posing any threat or danger.

She crawled into the hollow tree she had grown fond of sleeping in and curled into a ball while images of fire and explosions filled her mind with doubt.

o-o-o

Review. You have no idea how happy reviews make me.


	5. Little Annoyances

A/N: Yes, it's late. Really, insanely, superbly late. But in my defense, life is busy and between the horror of SGA's impending cancellation and Michael's character development in the show, I can't help feeling that this story is somewhat obsolete. I don't intend to just quit, but... I really can't assure anyone that the next chapter will come soon. I do want to finish it; that just seems difficult. So, on that note, I am willing to freely offer spoilers to anyone who does not wish to wait for my ponderous updating.

Many apologies for my wishy-washiness. I do love this story dearly, but it's a weary love. I wish now that I had written more of it sooner, before Michael went crazy-hybrid-happy and started obsessing over genetically unique infants.

Chapter Five: Little Annoyances

"Y'know what else I miss?" the soldier drawled, leaning back on his heels. "Homemade salsa. I may not be from west Texas, but I know good Tex-mex when I eat it. Better than real Mexican food, I'll give you that. 'Course, up north they consider Taco Bell to be real Mexican. I don't mean to insult northerners, but come on! That's fast food if I ever heard of it."

Michael grit his teeth and focused on the distant wall. It was not very interesting, but staring at it could almost allow him to pretend this man was not chattering in his ear.

"And what is with that stereotype that we all ride horses everywhere? My niece comes to visit me and tells me that some Chinese exchange student was surprised to see the cars. And that's not even getting into the assumption that we have prairie dogs and tumbleweeds all over the state, but for crying out loud, it's called the Piney Woods region for a reason."

A nurse in pink scrubs passed the spot on the wall he had been staring at. She was certainly more interesting. Without any conscious prompting, his eyes followed her appreciatively. She was not as muscular as most of the human females he had encountered on Atlantis, but that was obviously because she was no warrior. She was just a little bit plump without being unattractive in the human sense, her wheat-colored hair pulled back in a bun, her too-painted face deep in concentration as she looked over a clipboard.

"Now, I will admit that we may be a little bit arrogant, but most Texans you meet aren't real bad about it. Except in Dallas, but maybe I just had a bad experience."

The nurse stiffened suddenly and whipped her head around. Michael's eyes widened for a moment and he averted his eyes, his heart thudding suddenly in his chest. What was wrong with him? Giving into human instincts, allowing himself to admire one of them so openly… A sour taste filled his mouth, and try as he might, he could not rid himself of it.

"But if you lived in Texas even a year, you've been to San Antonio. Everyone's been to San Antonio. Hell, my uncle went, and he-"

"I don't know what San Antonio is," Michael growled, his eyes darting up to his guard. "And I don't know why you think I would particularly care."

"Well," the man said rather sheepishly. "I just figured that, well, since we told you last time that that was where you were from, I just figured-"

"I don't care any more now than I did a minute ago," Michael snapped.

The soldier snorted and turned away, but Michael caught the mischievous glimmer in his eye. One of Sheppard's men, without a doubt. He could just hear the military commander now. 'I'm not saying you should try to force him to memorize the state motto or anything but, you know, if you could brag on Texas just a bit when it's your turn to guard him…'

He clenched his jaw. Half the city was able to see past the Colonel's immaturity because they regarded him as some sort of savior. Humans were prone to hero worship. Like younglings, all of them.

Beckett suddenly stepped in front of him, an ever-present clipboard in his hands.

"Well, Michael, you're doing very well," the doctor said carefully. "But I'm not sure how much I like your hypothalamus."

Michael furrowed his brows. Catching his confusion, Beckett hurried to fill in the blank.

"Right, I suppose the wraith wouldn't know our word for that. It's the part of your brain that regulates body temperature. I'm not going to discourage you from physical activity, but I'll have to ask that you not go overboard, eh? So that means no eye contact with Ronon."

Beckett chuckled at what he evidently thought was humor. Michael could only scowl in response. Beckett faltered and, sheepishly, cleared his throat.

"Right, ah, well then. I'm going to advise daily check ups, all right?."

"As you wish," Michael replied lowly.

o-o-o

Michael had curled up on the benches that surrounded the training room, staring sullenly at the door. Teyla was late. It was unlike her. She'd never tarried when it came to his physical therapy before.

Of course, before he'd been human, naïve, non-threatening. She'd had the power before, because she'd known what was going on. Did it frighten her that she no longer had that power over him? The thought sent an unexpected pain through his chest.

He hadn't seen her since their argument on the balcony a week ago and, as a result, he'd had no company but for his own bitter memories, which chose to relive his time as a human over and over. Though he knew now that it had all been a lie, he couldn't escape the agony of betrayal he'd felt then.

"Michael?"

He started and nearly fell off the bench. Teyla stood only a few feet away, barefoot and catlike, dressed for training. Neither surprised nor evidently displeased, she wore a neutral expression as she surveyed him.

"You did not sense my entrance?" she asked gently.

Michael took a deep breath and swallowed the unplaced revulsion that had risen in his stomach.

"No," he answered, rising from his seat on the bench. "I was… I was thinking."

"You still should have been able to detect my presence. Are your senses not working properly? Perhaps you should visit Carson-"

"I am fine," he growled uncertainly. Of course, she was right. Even a human should have been able to notice the moment she entered, deep thoughts or no. Still, he was in no mood to return to the infirmary. Swiftly, he changed the subject. "Why were you late?"

Teyla peered at him oddly.

"Why are you concerned?"

"Because I had to wait," he answered instantly.

Teyla lifted her chin and, a moment later, a bare hint of a grin touched her lips.

"I will tell you," she challenged. "If you can beat me even once."

Michael snorted.

"Only once?"

"Only once."

Inclining his head, Michael slipped into a ready position. He had little true interest in the true reason behind her tardiness. More likely than not, Ronon had caught her in the hallway and given her a long-winded and harsh warning about the treacherous of their hybrid captive. But he wanted to hear it nonetheless. Maybe it was for the sake of power. He couldn't maintain any control over a situation if he couldn't manage to make her answer a simple question. He hoped that was the reason, because it was the only one he could fathom.

Teyla slipped into her own position and stared at him with an even expression.

He lunged at her, prepared to block any offense she might throw at him. Instead of attacking or defending, however, Teyla dodged. The next thing Michael knew, pain erupted between his shoulder blades, sending him flat on the ground. Teyla padded around the room, watching him like a mountain cat.

With a groan, Michael pulled himself back up onto his feet. Teyla attacked. He blocked, but suddenly felt his legs pulled out from under him.

This time he landed on his back. Teyla stood over him, calm but prepared to fight him off if he attempted to grab at her ankles. He let out a shallow breath. All too clearly, he was reminded that Teyla was a warrior who had spent her entire life fighting, and he was a scientist.

For the next fifteen minutes, Michael became well acquainted with the training room floor while Teyla politely beat the living tar out of him. Finally, after perhaps the dozenth time he'd been thrown to the ground, Michael couldn't find it in him to stand.

He lay there, gasping for breath and wincing each time one of his many bruises twinged. Teyla knelt down beside him, her hands folded across her knees.

"Michael?" she asked. "Are you all right?"

"That… is not a question that you… should be asking me," he wheezed, grimacing up at the ceiling.

"Very well," Teyla said, unruffled by his rude response. "Has Dr. Beckett found anything that might suggest your inability to pose a challenge?"

He glared at her.

"Are you genuinely interested in my health or is this the Athosian way to start a conversation?" he snapped.

Fire flared up in her eyes for a moment before she stood lithely, offering him a hand up. Her left hand, he noticed. So, even she was bothered by his right hand, despite the fact that it bore only a small, puckered scar to suggest that he had ever been able to feed with it.

Even so, he accepted her hand and grunted as she pulled him up, wincing at the painful pull of muscle and bone in his back. He was going to regret choosing sparring as his physical therapy. Perhaps running would be better… if his guards would permit him such extended use of the city.

He dropped clumsily back on the bench before he even realized that Teyla had been herding him in that direction and, silently, he was grateful for it.

"You are not well," Teyla informed him as she curled up several feet away, hands folded in her lap.

Michael grimaced and tried to summon a cynical sneer, but found that he hadn't the energy after the floor-wiping session.

"Tell me, Teyla," he sighed, weariness seeping into his voice. "Why is it always you whom I must spar with and speak to? I can see in your eyes the disdain you feel. You hate seeing that I cannot become human like you. So why do you bother?"

Teyla's eyes widened and she opened her mouth once, closed it, then opened it again.

"When I look at you," she admitted slowly, choosing her words with the utmost care. "I see someone that I once wanted to consider to be my friend. I accept that you are not the same Michael I befriended, as I am not the same Teyla."

"Why not?" he asked, bitterness seeping into his tone without any conscious intention.

"Because those people did not exist," she said firmly. "However, in the memory of what was almost a friendship, I will continue to be a companion for you."

"You use the term 'companion' loosely," he remarked, looking her over, despite the ache that built in his chest. "You wish to save me from the 'evils' of the wraith. That was your original intent, was it not?"

"I wish what is best for those who would be my friends."

She was so composed all the time. How he wished she could let her guard down around him, not in anger or resentment, but in joy or even sadness. He wanted what he saw among the humans. That ease, that comfort. It reminded him of the single-mindedness of the hive, formed from emotion rather than the collective consciousness of the wraith. Just once, he wanted the caramel corners of her mouth to curl up in a true smile around him, as it did around her team members, to feed this hunger he had only developed as a human.

He needed to give her something she wanted.

"Dr. Beckett says my body is not regulating temperature as well as he had hoped." The words fell from his lips before he had the chance to truly consider them. "Wraith are not warm blooded, but it seems that I must be in order to be a true hybrid. I expect other such problems have occurred as a result of this halfway state."

For just a moment, Teyla's mask slipped. Not in the way he had hoped, but not in the way he had dreaded, either. She was surprised.

"You should… inform Dr. Beckett," she instructed. "Perhaps he can work out a solution."

Michael paused, teetering on the edge of saying… something. But what? He had nothing to say. He settled, instead, for a nod.

"Perhaps."

o-o-o

As it was, the solution that presented itself was more to Michael's liking than he could have ever dreamed. Dr. Beckett, being the chief medical officer, could not continue to spend the bulk of his time tending to Michael's solitary condition. He had patients to tend, wraith/humans to check up on, and, occasionally, a chance to sleep. And, of course, there was only one individual with equal or superior experience in genetics who could possibly pick the research up where the doctor had left it off, and that was Michael himself.

The chance to research the retrovirus for himself was an eerie sort of relief, compared to the gut-wrenching anxiety that came from his dependency on another person's calculations. He occasionally had to pretend that the changes he researched weren't specifically intended for him, lest he lose his taste for the whole project and subject himself once more to the haphazard experiments of the humans.

His only true complaint was the presence of his guards. They interrupted him frequently; checking to ensure that he was indeed performing his research, instructing him to take meals at the most inopportune and crucial moments, even threatening to stun him if he did not agree to sleep when they thought it necessary. Most unpleasant of all were the daily reminders that he needed to waste time sitting in the infirmary, waiting for some hapless nurse to play pincushion with his arm for an hour or so and 'tut-tut' about the evident problems with the retrovirus before he was permitted to go back to work. After these sessions, the guards knew better than to tempt his ire, for they knew full and well that they were the first he would unleash it on.

No doubt they were just doing their jobs and seeing to it that they weren't reprimanded for permitting him to work himself beyond his new, semi-human limits, but there were times when he felt he could shoot any and all of them with no remorse whatsoever.

Perhaps the only thing that stopped him was their occasional usefulness. His mind wandered easily and more often with each day, his limbs growing sluggish as he worked long hours. When the symptoms grew so severe that he would sit or pace silently, mindlessly, lost in some distant memory or thought, the guards would hesitantly rouse him and guide him back to his research. He thanked them awkwardly and, with equal discomfort, they told him not to mention it.

They probably meant that more literally than the words might usually intend.

It was during one of his dazed moments, when he stood in a corner of the small research lab and stared, unseeing, at a monitor, that someone else pulled him back.

"Um, Michael?"

The voice did not belong to one of his guards. Dimly, he searched his memory. The accent was too off to be Beckett. Teyla, perhaps? She was the only one who ever entered the lab with the intent of dragging him out- not that she ever succeeded.

No… the voice was male. Not Teyla, then… but who else would dare to interrupt him? He narrowed his eyes at the monitor, trying to discern the owner of the voice, but he couldn't quite shut out the rush of thought and dream that clouded his senses.

"Michael?"

A hand rested on his shoulder. At once, all the fuzz and static disintegrated and Michael started, once again painfully present and aware of his surroundings. The hand swiftly removed itself and Michael glanced around, wide-eyed, until at last his gaze landed on a nervous looking Dr. McKay.

Dr. Rodney… McKay.

What in all of existence could he possibly want?

"I, ah…" McKay, at a rare loss for words, held up his tablet for Michael to see. "Katie… I mean, some of the scientists on this planet have been complaining of some weird stuff going on. Like… stuff going missing or accidents in the middle of the night. It's an uninhabited planet, but it looks like what used to be a wraith facility in the mountains. Y'know, in case… in case that has anything to do with it."

Michael studied the tablet through the fuzz of his memories. It was… familiar. He pursed his lips and furrowed his brows. There was something important about this facility. Something useful.

"I swear, I wouldn't have come to you if you weren't literally the only guy in Atlantis who could tell me whether or not it's significant," McKay babbled. Unfortunately, it seemed he had overcome that loss for words. "I mean, it's not like you or I are the kind of guys who just ask one another for anything."

"I want to see this place for myself," Michael interrupted him fervidly.

"What?"

Michael shoved the tablet back at him, excitement bubbling up in his gut.

"That facility was used for wraith experimentation on humans. It could be useful for my research."

"You-you mean… actually _go_ there?" McKay stammered. Michael glared at him.

"My mind wanders, Doctor," he growled. "It does not mean that I'm unaware of my own words. Yes. I intend to go there."

"I, uh…" McKay was grasping for straws now. "I dunno if Elizabeth'll go for that. She probably wants you, y'know… here. In Atlantis."

Michael's glare grew more intense and, despite his lack of sharp, impressive teeth, the sneer he gave the doctor was enough to cause the man's eyes to go as wide as dinner plates.

"But I'll ask anyway," he yelped.

o-o-o

"What do you mean okay?" Rodney protested.

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow.

"I mean, I think it's important that Michael doesn't feel like a prisoner this time around."

"But he is," Sheppard pointed out from the other side of the table.

Elizabeth sighed, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose. She loved her people dearly, but John and Rodney had little habits of making her want to sit them down and explain things to them as though they were three year olds.

The impulse only grew stronger when she was caught in the same room as both of them in close proximity.

"It's important that he doesn't _feel_ like a prisoner," she reiterated. "If we can gain his trust again, he could prove valuable to Atlantis. Moreso, if we don't keep anything hidden that could cause any loss of trust."

"I request permission to assign a team of marines to keep an eye on him," John insisted.

"And handcuffs or something," Rodney added. "And stunners."

Elizabeth shot Rodney a look, but she knew perfectly well that…

"Just a precaution," John pointed out.

Yes. That. Hopefully, being up front with him would be enough to keep him from going off the deep end this time.

"All right," she consented. "I'll give you that much."

Secretly, she was just glad that they had been the ones to suggest it. To play the bad guys for a change, because they all knew that there was no way, hell or high water, that Michael was going anywhere with anything less than a muzzle and a leash.

o-o-o

Almost there! Next chapter should actually be a little bit exciting.

R&R, as usual.


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